


oh! forever

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 02:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7462290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm starting to think you <i>want</i> to get caught."</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh! forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xXdreameaterXx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/gifts).



> For your prompt: Clara + the Doctor + public sex.  
> Title from the [song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ACC2Xcvq4U) by Brakes.

They're going to a charity event, although the Doctor hasn't been too specific about what the cause actually is. Something about expeditions to or perhaps researching star-forming galaxies, she's not quite sure.

"So is this a date?" Clara asks from the bathroom. She's twisting her hair up into a complicated style that involves approximately a thousand kirby grips and generous use of hairspray.

"They said you could bring a plus one," the Doctor responds. She can hear the clink of glass on glass - he must be fiddling with the perfume bottles that line her vanity again although he knows that it bothers her. (Maybe that's why he does it so often.) "And you will always be my plus one."

There's something so sweet in the way he says that - like it's such a simple, obvious, established fact that it can't be questioned. It makes Clara wish she hadn't trivialised the idea with such an off-hand remark.

She's all distracted and glowy from the thought, absentmindedly doing a last check on her makeup. She examines her dress in the mirror, wondering if it's too low-cut (probably, but fuck it). Then the sound of glass shattering brings her out of it. It's followed by swearing and frantic sweeping. "Everything all right?" she calls. "Oh, very," the Doctor says in a way that suggests that it isn't at all. "Your room might smell like citrus and flowers for awhile, though."

When Clara comes back out of the bathroom, after gagging on the overpowering cloud of perfume, she notices that he's wearing the same outfit he had on when they were in the Sherwood Forest: dark grey jacket, deep purple shirt. The shirt coordinates exactly with the dress she's got on - it's the the same rich colour. They match. They always do, just fitting together in an odd sort of way, even if he's much taller than her and she has to wear her highest heels just to keep up with him.

***

He parks the TARDIS just outside what turns out to be an enormous mansion. Clara feels dwarfed already even though they're standing far away from it at the moment.

The mansion overlooks what the Doctor explains is a ocean but not an ocean. It's a paradox that he goes into detail about until Clara protests it's starting to wrinkle her brain.

So they walk in silence up the gravel path that winds toward it. The moon overhead is bright, but nothing compared to the lights that confront them when they get inside. It's like there's illumination from every surface - the whole place is glowing. Glittery chandeliers hang overhead and their light gets reflected off the mirrored walls.

They're immediately welcomed in by hundreds of noisy aliens holding wine glasses in all of their five hands, chatting enthusiastically with each other in the way that drunk people do. Each of them greets the Doctor with all their five arms outstretched for either a hug (he's against the hugging, he explains. Clara half-smiles. Against the hugging unless it's with her.) or a handshake (he's not against that, it allows him to keep his distance).

"Why do they like you so much?" Clara asks, accepting a glass of wine but explaining to them that she can't possibly hold five at once. (She tried that once back when she was in sixth form and it didn't end well.)

"I'm a very likeable person," the Doctor responds. Clara lifts an eyebrow at him and he relents. "Fine, I might've impersonated their board president at one point. Don't ask why, I had to do it for reasons that are, unfortunately, classified."

"If you say so," Clara replies, sipping her wine and gazing out on the crowd.

The gala is fun at first but it gets overwhelming fast. There are just so many aliens with so many hands and arms flailing about. Loud, boisterous yells whenever someone new arrives. It's still not clear what they're trying to raise money for (if they even use money here) but their fundraising seems to be going well from what little Clara can decipher from their conversation. And the lights in the room are blinding - she has to keep closing her eyes for some relief.

Finally it's all too much and she starts to get a bit of a headache. She taps the Doctor's bicep and explains that she's got to take a breather for a minute. Then she heads off alone in search of a quieter spot, an oasis of peace beyond the jostling throng of the party/gala/fundraiser (booze-fest).

She finds a set of French doors that open out onto a wide balcony with a marble bannister encircling it. A few low pine trees are growing out of the floor of the balcony in a row that curves, carving out an an area that's semi-secluded. Clara retreats behind the trees and takes off her heels, relieving her aching feet. She can run in heels (and has been forced to more than once), but that doesn't mean she always enjoys wearing them.

Clara looks out on the not-ocean ocean and breathes in, feeling better already. For a fake body of water, the salty smell is surprisingly realistic. The moon reflects off the water in milky-white stripes.

She hears footsteps behind her and turns to see the Doctor heading towards her. "I know what you mean," he says, though she hasn't said anything. And she knows what he means, too, without saying anything back: they both need breaks from overstimulation. Another way that they match.

"You look beautiful tonight," he continues quietly, coming closer. He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the bannister. Rolls up his sleeves, skin pale in the moonlight. "Oh?" Clara asks, soft and demure. She loves it when the Doctor compliments her because he doesn't do it very often. So she knows that each time he does, it's sincere because the words haven't been wasted on over-repetition. "Yes, very," he responds, bending down to kiss her, deep and sweet. Clara half-wishes she hadn't taken her heels off - she has to lean up that much farther to respond to his kisses. Swaying almost dangerously in his arms. "Good enough to eat," he says as he wanders his hands almost absentmindedly up her thighs.

Clara shivers; she has a good idea of his intentions and is eager to follow along, but the logical part of her brain argues that they're in a public (if half-hidden) place. This rationalisation is getting fuzzy, though, because he's now slowly reaching his hands around to unzip her dress. Her dress slides silky down her body to puddle at her feet, leaving her rather exposed. It gives her some kind of thrill she can't quite describe: the idea that the only thing keeping them from being discovered is the tiny copse of pine trees they're hiding behind.

Someone's turned the light on in an upstairs room, creating a square of yellowish light that feels like a spotlight. Any one of those many-armed aliens could just lean out the window, look down, and _see_. They could watch while the Doctor reaches between her legs to stroke his hand against her underwear. Deliberately pressing hard, then harder, before lightening his touch and feeling her carefully. Clara's hair has long-since tumbled out of its updo and it now swishes against her shoulders as she twists her body, stepping out of the pile of her dress so she can respond more easily to the way he's touching her. The way he's warming her up with exploratory fingertips that help her body wake up, become sensitive.

"You get so wet," he says, both flirty and, she thinks, admiring. Sliding off her underwear so she can step out of that, too. The motion gives Clara all this tension in her limbs, making her whole body thrum with heat. She's getting all worked up and impatient, and she knows he likes it when she's bossy, so she pushes him down until he's kneeling in front of her. Like he's worshipping her. The bossy facade becomes much harder to continue as he spreads her open with his fingers. A psychic flicker appears in her mind that shows her exactly what he sees: her very core, flushed pink like a candy heart and throbbing gently as she waits for him. There's an appreciative sort of overlay to the image that makes her feel safe and wanted. They might run from planet to planet together, but it always comes back to the two of them taking care of each other.

He moves his hands away, then, and holds her hips steady while he licks a slow and gentle path upwards to her clit, and kisses her there before sucking at her clit, letting it become swollen and even more sensitive in his mouth.

Clara leans against the bannister and curls her fingers over the marble, feeling completely brazen with her back arched like this. She looks up at the stars, concentrating on their various patterns as if they will help keep her focused, keep her from losing this too soon. Her breath rises up into gasping pants that catch on a whimper.

A cool breeze is coming in off what may or may not be the ocean behind them. Despite that, her skin still feels all hot and alive. The Doctor continues to use rhythmic licks that are steady and slow. Little warm wet strokes, teasing her with his tongue. She whines, twisting a little, but he does it again - tongue flat, working upwards. Now Clara has officially lost track of what planet they're even on because she can feel it, this hot, nervy sensation all through her body that only increases when she looks down to watch him. His eyes are closed and his face is serious in concentration as if he's trying to navigate the TARDIS through a particularly difficult time vortex. Gentle little touches of his tongue that nudge up around her clit and Clara just knows that she's dripping into his mouth, onto his tongue. She can hear him swallow and she shudders, lifting her left leg to hook it over his shoulder and rest it against his back - which is when he licks _inside_ her with a moaning exhale.

Clara looks away from the stars and glances downward to see what exactly he's doing. She finds that he's looking back up at her now as he licks at her. It makes her all trembly: an intimate moment between the two of them in a place that's anything but.

"Pleasohpleaseohplease -" Clara moans - one hand still on the bannister and the other now fisted into his hair, his curls thick under her fingertips. The French doors are still open, and every so often she can see shapes moving distantly past. The sound of laughter drifts outwards, carried by the breeze. It would be so very, very easy for someone to catch them. Clara cares only dimly, too lost in this, lost in how her hips seem to move of their own accord, pushing her closer against his mouth. He seeks out a pattern that works for her, paying attention to when she tugs at his hair to direct him better. Once she's gotten him in the right place, he stays with it, still moving gently, tongue soft, not insistent.

It makes her moan louder and louder until the Doctor stops and looks up at her again. "I'm starting to think you _want_ to get caught." His lips and chin are sticky, shiny. Clara's stomach lifts and then drops when she remembers that that's from _her_. She's struck by the sudden, strange urge to feel herself on his mouth, his tongue. She wants to know what she tastes like to him.

A rustling noise cuts her off mid-moan. Someone is walking past where they're half-hidden by the trees. Clara can hear scraps of muttered conversation that she could make out if she wasn't so focused on how the Doctor is almost growling against her wet skin. The footsteps and idle chatter recede and her stomach drops again, thinking of how close they were to being found out.

"Go on," the Doctor says, then, in a tone that's encouraging, coaxing. Clara's spiralling into something that's out of her control and she just wants to chase it, follow it - "I want to hear you say it," he continues, just demanding enough that she trembles.

"I - " Clara swallows, shaky, because he's gone back to kissing, licking, _sucking_ \- she grips harder at his hair, this close to pushing him down onto the balcony and just riding his face. "I - " she tries again. Her brain short-circuits because he's just licking at her clit now with a delicate pressure that makes her shiver. Eventually she manages to get the words out, though her voice edges up into a moan. "I want you to make me come -"

"How?" he asks, mumbly at her right thigh, giving her a kiss there that's so slick she shudders.

"With your mouth," Clara stutters. "So hard that everyone here will know -"

"But that would just be reckless, wouldn't it?" the Doctor responds, and she whines because now is really not the time to start abiding by his complex and ever-evolving moral code. He's stopped kissing her thigh, instead choosing to bite at her, leaving behind a tiny purple bruise. The brief moment of pain makes her throb hotly because he's still making her wait. When it seems that he's decided he's held off long enough, he returns to working her over with a light and delicate pressure.

The tension in Clara's body starts coiling up fiercely until it feels like she's shattered herself all over again, splintering off into the galaxy. She's not sure how long it takes for her to come down off her high. Breath catching and releasing, muscles catching and releasing. The Doctor kissing at her skin, both guiding her through it and pushing her harder over the edge.

Finally she returns to herself, all buzzy and lightheaded. Clara relaxes her hold on his hair and ruffles it affectionately. She lifts her leg back off the Doctor's shoulder and looks down to see that he's wiping off his mouth. He's got a self-satisfied look on his face that she's not sure whether she wants to kiss or slap off his face. In the end she chooses to kiss him. The odd sweet taste of herself on his tongue.

No one caught them, no one will know. The only evidence is this slippery wet feeling Clara's got as she puts her clothes back on and the mark on her thigh. And if she walks a little unsteadily in her heels, still reeling from the last remnants of her orgasm, well - the Doctor's always there to hold onto.


End file.
